A Mother In Distress

Inasmuch as the scene of this story is that historic pile, BelpherCastle, in the county of Hampshire, it would be an agreeable taskto open it with a leisurely description of the place, followed bysome notes on the history of the Earls of Marshmoreton, who haveowned it since the fifteenth century. Unfortunately, in these daysof rush and hurry, a novelist works at a disadvantage. He mustleap into the middle of his tale with as little delay as he wouldemploy in boarding a moving tramcar. He must get off the mark withthe smooth swiftness of a jack-rabbit surprised while lunching.

　　Otherwise, people throw him aside and go out to picture palaces.

　　I may briefly remark that the present Lord Marshmoreton is awidower of some forty-eight years: that he has two children--a son,Percy Wilbraham Marsh, Lord Belpher, who is on the brink of histwenty-first birthday, and a daughter, Lady Patricia Maud Marsh,who is just twenty: that the chatelaine of the castle is LadyCaroline Byng, Lord Marshmoreton's sister, who married the verywealthy colliery owner, Clifford Byng, a few years before his death(which unkind people say she hastened): and that she has astep-son, Reginald. Give me time to mention these few facts and Iam done. On the glorious past of the Marshmoretons I will not eventouch.

　　Luckily, the loss to literature is not irreparable. LordMarshmoreton himself is engaged upon a history of the family, whichwill doubtless be on every bookshelf as soon as his lordship getsit finished. And, as for the castle and its surroundings, includingthe model dairy and the amber drawing-room, you may see them foryourself any Thursday, when Belpher is thrown open to the public onpayment of a fee of one shilling a head. The money is collected byKeggs the butler, and goes to a worthy local charity. At least,that is the idea. But the voice of calumny is never silent, andthere exists a school of thought, headed by Albert, the page-boy,which holds that Keggs sticks to these shillings like glue, andadds them to his already considerable savings in the Farmers' andMerchants' Bank, on the left side of the High Street in Belphervillage, next door to the Oddfellows' Hall.

　　With regard to this, one can only say that Keggs looks far too muchlike a particularly saintly bishop to indulge in any such practices.

　　On the other hand, Albert knows Keggs. We must leave the matteropen.

　　Of course, appearances are deceptive. Anyone, for instance, who hadbeen standing outside the front entrance of the castle at eleveno'clock on a certain June morning might easily have made a mistake.

　　Such a person would probably have jumped to the conclusion that themiddle-aged lady of a determined cast of countenance who wasstanding near the rose-garden, talking to the gardener and watchingthe young couple strolling on the terrace below, was the mother ofthe pretty girl, and that she was smiling because the latter hadrecently become engaged to the tall, pleasant-faced youth at herside.

　　Sherlock Holmes himself might have been misled. One can hear himexplaining the thing to Watson in one of those lightning flashes ofinductive reasoning of his. "It is the only explanation, my dearWatson. If the lady were merely complimenting the gardener on hisrose-garden, and if her smile were merely caused by the excellentappearance of that rose-garden, there would be an answering smileon the face of the gardener. But, as you see, he looks morose andgloomy."As a matter of fact, the gardener--that is to say, the stocky,brown-faced man in shirt sleeves and corduroy trousers who wasfrowning into a can of whale-oil solution--was the Earl ofMarshmoreton, and there were two reasons for his gloom. He hated tobe interrupted while working, and, furthermore, Lady Caroline Byngalways got on his nerves, and never more so than when, as now, shespeculated on the possibility of a romance between her step-sonReggie and his lordship's daughter Maud.

　　Only his intimates would have recognized in this curiouscorduroy-trousered figure the seventh Earl of Marshmoreton. TheLord Marshmoreton who made intermittent appearances in London, wholunched among bishops at the Athenaeum Club without excitingremark, was a correctly dressed gentleman whom no one would havesuspected of covering his sturdy legs in anything but the finestcloth. But if you will glance at your copy of Who's Who, and turnup the "M's", you will find in the space allotted to the Earl thewords "Hobby--Gardening". To which, in a burst of modest pride, hislordship has added "Awarded first prize for Hybrid Teas, TempleFlower Show, 1911". The words tell their own story.

　　Lord Marshmoreton was the most enthusiastic amateur gardener in aland of enthusiastic amateur gardeners. He lived for his garden.

　　The love which other men expend on their nearest and dearest LordMarshmoreton lavished on seeds, roses and loamy soil. The hatredwhich some of his order feel for Socialists and Demagogues LordMarshmoreton kept for roseslugs, rose-beetles and the small,yellowish-white insect which is so depraved and sinister acharacter that it goes through life with an alias--being sometimescalled a rose-hopper and sometimes a thrips. A simple soul, LordMarshmoreton--mild and pleasant. Yet put him among the thrips, andhe became a dealer-out of death and slaughter, a destroyer in theclass of Attila the Hun and Genghis Khan. Thrips feed on theunderside of rose leaves, sucking their juice and causing them toturn yellow; and Lord Marshmoreton's views on these things were sorigid that he would have poured whale-oil solution on hisgrandmother if he had found her on the underside of one of his roseleaves sucking its juice.

　　The only time in the day when he ceased to be the horny-handedtoiler and became the aristocrat was in the evening after dinner,when, egged on by Lady Caroline, who gave him no rest in thematter--he would retire to his private study and work on hisHistory of the Family, assisted by his able secretary, AliceFaraday. His progress on that massive work was, however, slow. Tenhours in the open air made a man drowsy, and too often LordMarshmoreton would fall asleep in mid-sentence to the annoyance ofMiss Faraday, who was a conscientious girl and liked to earn hersalary.

　　The couple on the terrace had turned. Reggie Byng's face, as hebent over Maud, was earnest and animated, and even from a distanceit was possible to see how the girl's eyes lit up at what he wassaying. She was hanging on his words. Lady Caroline's smile becamemore and more benevolent.

　　"They make a charming pair," she murmured. "I wonder what dearReggie is saying. Perhaps at this very moment--"She broke off with a sigh of content. She had had her troubles overthis affair. Dear Reggie, usually so plastic in her hands, haddisplayed an unaccountable reluctance to offer his agreeable selfto Maud--in spite of the fact that never, not even on the publicplatform which she adorned so well, had his step-mother reasonedmore clearly than she did when pointing out to him the advantagesof the match. It was not that Reggie disliked Maud. He admittedthat she was a "topper", on several occasions going so far as todescribe her as "absolutely priceless". But he seemed reluctant toask her to marry him. How could Lady Caroline know that Reggie'sentire world--or such of it as was not occupied by racing cars andgolf--was filled by Alice Faraday? Reggie had never told her. Hehad not even told Miss Faraday.

　　"Perhaps at this very moment," went on Lady Caroline, "the dear boyis proposing to her."Lord Marshmoreton grunted, and continued to peer with a questioningeye in the awesome brew which he had prepared for the thrips.

　　"One thing is very satisfactory," said Lady Caroline. "I mean thatMaud seems entirely to have got over that ridiculous infatuation ofhers for that man she met in Wales last summer. She could not be socheerful if she were still brooding on that. I hope you will admitnow, John, that I was right in keeping her practically a prisonerhere and never allowing her a chance of meeting the man againeither by accident or design. They say absence makes the heart growfonder. Stuff! A girl of Maud's age falls in and out of love half adozen times a year. I feel sure she has almost forgotten the man bynow.""Eh?" said Lord Marshmoreton. His mind had been far away, dealingwith green flies.

　　"I was speaking about that man Maud met when she was staying withBrenda in Wales.""Oh, yes!""Oh, yes!" echoed Lady Caroline annoyed. "Is that the only commentyou can find to make? Your only daughter becomes infatuated with aperfect stranger--a man we have never seen--of whom we know nothing,not even his name--nothing except that he is an American and hasn'ta penny--Maud admitted that. And all you say is 'Oh, yes'!""But it's all over now, isn't it? I understood the dashed affairwas all over.""We hope so. But I should feel safer if Maud were engaged toReggie. I do think you might take the trouble to speak to Maud.""Speak to her? I do speak to her." Lord Marshmoreton's brain movedslowly when he was pre-occupied with his roses. "We're onexcellent terms."Lady Caroline frowned impatiently. Hers was an alert, vigorousmind, bright and strong like a steel trap, and her brother'svagueness and growing habit of inattention irritated her.

　　"I mean to speak to her about becoming engaged to Reggie. You areher father. Surely you can at least try to persuade her.""Can't coerce a girl.""I never suggested that you should coerce her, as you put it. Imerely meant that you could point out to her, as a father, whereher duty and happiness lie.""Drink this!" cried his lordship with sudden fury, spraying his canover the nearest bush, and addressing his remark to the invisiblethrips. He had forgotten Lady Caroline completely. "Don't stintyourselves! There's lots more!"A girl came down the steps of the castle and made her way towardsthem. She was a good-looking girl, with an air of quiet efficiencyabout her. Her eyes were grey and whimsical. Her head wasuncovered, and the breeze stirred her dark hair. She made agraceful picture in the morning sunshine, and Reggie Byng, sightingher from the terrace, wobbled in his tracks, turned pink, and lostthe thread of his remarks.

　　The sudden appearance of Alice Faraday always affected him likethat.

　　"I have copied out the notes you made last night, LordMarshmoreton. I typed two copies."Alice Faraday spoke in a quiet, respectful, yet subtlyauthoritative voice. She was a girl of great character. Previousemployers of her services as secretary had found her a jewel. ToLord Marshmoreton she was rapidly becoming a perfect incubus. Theirviews on the relative importance of gardening and family historiesdid not coincide. To him the history of the Marshmoreton family wasthe occupation of the idle hour: she seemed to think that he oughtto regard it as a life-work. She was always coming and digging himout of the garden and dragging him back to what should have been apurely after-dinner task. It was Lord Marshmoreton's habit, whenhe awoke after one of his naps too late to resume work, to throwout some vague promise of "attending to it tomorrow"; but, hereflected bitterly, the girl ought to have tact and sense tounderstand that this was only polite persiflage, and not to betaken literally.

　　"They are very rough," continued Alice, addressing her conversationto the seat of his lordship's corduroy trousers. Lord Marshmoretonalways assumed a stooping attitude when he saw Miss Faradayapproaching with papers in her hand; for he laboured under apathetic delusion, of which no amount of failures could rid him,that if she did not see his face she would withdraw. "You rememberlast night you promised you would attend to them this morning." Shepaused long enough to receive a non-committal grunt by way ofanswer. "Of course, if you're busy--" she said placidly, with ahalf-glance at Lady Caroline. That masterful woman could always becounted on as an ally in these little encounters.

　　"Nothing of the kind!" said Lady Caroline crisply. She was stillruffled by the lack of attention which her recent utterances hadreceived, and welcomed the chance of administering discipline. "Getup at once, John, and go in and work.""I am working," pleaded Lord Marshmoreton.

　　Despite his forty-eight years his sister Caroline still had thepower at times to make him feel like a small boy. She had been agreat martinet in the days of their mutual nursery.

　　"The Family History is more important than grubbing about in thedirt. I cannot understand why you do not leave this sort of thingto MacPherson. Why you should pay him liberal wages and then do hiswork for him, I cannot see. You know the publishers are waiting forthe History. Go and attend to these notes at once.""You promised you would attend to them this morning, LordMarshmoreton," said Alice invitingly.

　　Lord Marshmoreton clung to his can of whale-oil solution with theclutch of a drowning man. None knew better than he that theseinterviews, especially when Caroline was present to lend the weightof her dominating personality, always ended in the same way.

　　"Yes, yes, yes!" he said. "Tonight, perhaps. After dinner, eh? Yes,after dinner. That will be capital.""I think you ought to attend to them this morning," said Alice,gently persistent. It really perturbed this girl to feel that shewas not doing work enough to merit her generous salary. And on thesubject of the history of the Marshmoreton family she was anenthusiast. It had a glamour for her.

　　Lord Marshmoreton's fingers relaxed their hold. Throughout therose-garden hundreds of spared thrips went on with their morningmeal, unwitting of doom averted.

　　"Oh, all right, all right, all right! Come into the library.""Very well, Lord Marshmoreton." Miss Faraday turned to LadyCaroline. "I have been looking up the trains, Lady Caroline. Thebest is the twelve-fifteen. It has a dining-car, and stops atBelpher if signalled.""Are you going away, Caroline?" inquired Lord Marshmoretonhopefully.

　　"I am giving a short talk to the Social Progress League atLewisham. I shall return tomorrow.""Oh!" said Marshmoreton, hope fading from his voice.